


A Crown of Green and Blue

by Thevaen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Flower Crowns, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thevaen/pseuds/Thevaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sixth night they set up camp for the night Bilbo silently ventured off into the dense tree line, only to return after quite some time; carrying grass and flowers and twigs. They had all stared, for Dwarves were nothing if not curious in the arts of crafting, be it stone or plant. It had taken a while, a long time indeed, before any shape was taken. That had been the first time, but many times followed. After the events in the Goblin Tunnels it had become custom for them to sit by the fire, accompanied by the soft rustle of the leaves between Bilbo's fingers and the scent of Thorin's tobacco. Thorin doesn't dwell on the development. It just became, and now it was. </p><p>He never wonders why Bilbo seems so set on making crown after crown, never quite satisfied. Never bothers to ask. It's not until weeks later that Bilbo's reasons became clear. Gently he places the crown atop the Dwarf's head. Thorin lets him, completely in awe and shock alike. But then Bilbo's face breaks into a smile, accompanied by a small beam of delight as he steps back to regard the view in front of him.</p><p>''There. Finally one suited for a King.''</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crown of Green and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a headcannon I posted on tumblr. (http://idiot-bv.tumblr.com/post/116849227675/bilbo-is-actually-really-skilled-at-making-flower) Decided to write it out (originally for anuexpectedanniversary) but just didn't have the time. May write the second sad/angsty addition, may not want to break my own heart and thus avoid it.
> 
>  
> 
> Edited the title because I hated the first.

Hobbits were meant for nature.

Thorin knew as much, even before he'd met their burglar. It took little more than a working pair of eyes and a walk through the shire to learn this. The first day he was under the impression Bilbo thought of this journey as nothing more than a fieldtrip with the way he would look up and around, eyes scanning trees and bushes and lighting up with a glimmer in his eyes that reminded Thorin of a childish delight, and that served no other purpose than to annoy him. Despite the complaining that echoed after mere hours, of this and that, of back pains and the lack of manners of those around him (though Thorin had no choice but to agree, the monstrous sound Gloín produced before he all but launched a substantial  amount of spit at the ground was objectionable even for him.), there was always some degree of wonder in his expression. Thorin could only imagine just how scarcely the Hobbit had left The Shire. It was not at all a respectable assumption and a feat to be proud off, despite Bilbo's own view on the matter being the latter. Yes, it angered him, to see the Halfling  stare in wonder and delight, with little more to worry about than the lack of a handkerchief, but not just for the obvious. Thorin was, if he was being honest (and something he would never admit to be about this particular matter), painfully envious.

He had the weight of his kin on his shoulders, the burden of his birthright and the ever heavy weight of the past. He would not, could not, enjoy this journey as the Hobbit seemed to. He couldn't recall the last time he regarded his surroundings in something other than suspicion or horror. Had the past not ruined him so, he would have wished for nothing more than to walk among the trees and plants with much of the same wonder their Burglar seemed to have.    

As Thorin learned, it didn't stay at staring either. No, the sixth night they set up camp for the night Bilbo silently ventured off into the dense tree line, only to return after quite some time; carrying grass and flowers and twigs. At first the company assumed each plant to have some sort of purpose as a seasoning, and feared he'd mix it up in their meal after his loud complaining about the lack thereof. But he hadn't, instead he had scoffed, padded over to use the light of the fire, sat down, and got to work.

They had all stared, for Dwarves were nothing if not curious in the arts of crafting, be it stone or plant. It had taken a while, a long time indeed, before any shape was taken. The Hobbit refused to answer the questions repeatedly asked, another thing that annoyed Thorin; for why be so secretive about something that was without a doubt harmless? But when Bilbo finally straightened his back and stared at the plants in his lap with both pride and delight clearly evident on his face, he wished their burglar had been more secretive; so secretive he might have done it elsewhere.

Not even for Thorin himself, no. It was for Bilbo that he wished this. The company bothered not to hide or muffle the laughter that rose from the depth of their chests and echoed in the air around them. While Thorin too did not see the use for the skill Bilbo seemed so proud of possessing he did not encourage using what he assumed to be a simple matter of cultural differences in values as a laughing stock. The only thing that brought a smile to his own lips was the sound of his nephew's ringing laughter, but a horrible timing it was, for it was also at that moment that Bilbo's eyes met his. It was not at all something he was accustomed to, for his guts to churn in guilt at the look in the burglar's eyes. His brows furrowed together. _''Enough! Leave Master Baggins to his merriments.''_  He had all but barked,  but it did not have the desired effect. While the Dwarves were indeed silenced, Bilbo Baggins seemed even more offended and cross than before, and he had stood and all but stomped over to his bedroll, ignoring the reassuring words of both his nephews and Bofur. _''Come on Bilbo, we didn't mean it that way!''_

He didn't turn around, not even at the coaxing from Gandalf. Later that night, much much later in fact, before Thorin would wake up Kíli to take over his watch, he walked to where Bilbo had tossed his creation and picked it up.

It was far more detailed and complex, Thorin found upon closer examination. It didn't fall apart at the slightest touch, as it would have had this been made by a Dwarf. Their hands were far too broad, their fingers too thick and their movements to brash to accomplish this. He looked over to the Hobbit, his gaze falling on the hands clutching the fur that shielded him from the night's chill. They weren't as slender as Elves', nor were they very similar to Men's where they should be. There were definitely some Dwarvish features to them. Made for crafting, with soil and plants it may be, but it was a craft nonetheless, and crafts,  Dwarves respected. His gaze went back to his own hands, his thumb gently brushing the soft yellow petal. He let out a soft scoff. He walked over to where Bilbo was sleeping soundly and carefully placed the flower crown next to him, so that he may see it in the morning.

He thought for sure that night that when he would wake, Master Baggins would be gone. Fewer than he liked shared his morals and didn't shy away from voicing their belittling opinions. Yet, when he woke, he found the Hobbit already saddling his pony.

''Master Baggins.'' Not until the Hobbit turned did he realize he spoke the words aloud, and he briefly wondered if they sounded as surprised as they had in his mind.

''Yes?'' Bilbo tapped his foot on the ground when Thorin didn't resume speaking. ''What is it? Am I doing it wrong?'' His brows furrowed together in scowl and he waved his hand to the saddle in an impatient manner.

''No, no such thing.'' Thorin spoke, trying not to respond equally impatient. ''I was simply surprised to find you still here.''

The words, of course, fell not as they were intended. Bilbo scowl deepened further and he voiced a wordless exclamation of offense, throwing his hands in the air.

''Well excuse me! Would you like me to turn around then?'' The question was far from spoken kindly, voice laced with sarcasm.

''I assure you, you misunderstand.'' Thorin spoke, voice level and almost solemn in an attempt to keep his own impatience hidden. ''While the voices from my kin yesterday were not ill- meant,-''

''If you're implying you thought I'd leave over something as petty as that you'd do best not to say more, unless you mean to offend me?''

''No, I promise you that is not my intention.'' Thorin's face showed the briefest moment of surprise at the fierceness behind the words. It appeared their burglar might be more abiding than he seemed, though Thorin was unsure whether it was that, or just the stubborn trait he had quickly come to discover the Halfling possessed.

Bilbo merely scoffed, but nodded in approval before turning back to his saddle. Thorin dared not point that upon closer expectation, he was indeed, not tying the saddle properly.

Despite his words, It took awhile before he was comfortable enough to temporary disappear again, but this time when he returned, no one laughed or mocked. While some, that is, Dwalin, still grunted in disapproval, most just let him be. Bilbo worked in silence, but despite the fact that no ill response came, he still seemed less satisfied that he had been the first time, and went to bed with a frown. Thorin knew what criticism could do to a crafter's eye on his own work and paid it no mind, and right he was. Several weeks passed and by now it was not uncommon for Bilbo to retreat to a more secluded spot that allowed both for concentration and the light of the fire to aid him. By now, several of the Dwarves had become more interested in his work, several times Bilbo would be giving Ori guidance, the youngest Dwarf struggling with grass, flowers and twigs of his own, and on one occasion Thorin had caught his nephews attempting the same, though they soon gave up and showed their preference in throwing them into the air above the fire.

He too, became more interested. At first he regarded Bilbo from a safe distance, from a considerable distance away from the company and the fire, so that none would see his lingering eyes. He was the leader, and he feared their judgment should he not hide his interest. Time and time again he watched their Burglar furrow his brows in concentration, all but glaring at the green between his fingers. Every time a crown was made, but every time it was discarded when at last it seemed finished. He was not the only one curious as to why the Hobbit would spend well over an hour working, only to toss it to the side afterwards.

''It's not just about the result. I take pleasure in making it.'' He'd say. Shrug his shoulders and allow a soft smile to play on his lips, and again Thorin would be struck with envy; He remembered well the times he could forge for pleasure. ''Though I do aim for something better than, this.'' He'd finish, waving a hand in the general direction of the object.

 It was after this that he slowly, oh so slowly, came closer during those nights. By now, several months further into their journey, he was staring at Bilbo's hands from across the fire, so that he might as well had been staring into the flames. The night air had long since turned bitter and the days more wearing, leaving the company to yearn for every hour of sleep they were allowed to have. But not their burglar. It was a ritual he held onto for dear life, not matter how tired he was, oh and he was so. The bags under his eyes were visible even from across the fire. His hair had grown longer and resembled closer a disheveled mop thrown atop his head. His clothes had started to get increasingly ragged and with it the image of a proper and respectable Hobbit he held so proudly.

''Staring is considered to be quite rude you know.''

Thorin was pulled from his thoughts by the soft voice, and when his eyes focused they met Bilbo's briefly before he went back to carefully weaving the long grass.  
  
Thorin coughed. ''I apologize, I was lost in thought.''

Bilbo hummed, amused. ''About flower crowns and Hobbit hair?''

Thorin was at a loss for words. Bilbo looked up, smiling. Yes, Bilbo Baggins was far more perceptive than he let on. ''It is getting rather long.'' He left the crown for what it was for the moment, instead twirling the strands of hair that reached his brow. ''Your hair doesn't seem to have grown that much, though I suppose it's rather hard to notice at such length.''

Still, Thorin remained silent. Only a hand full of times did Thorin speak to Bilbo in what could be described as casual conversation. ''If you're going to stare into the flames solemnly, you might as well do it with a nicer scenery in the background.'' Bilbo waved his hand in the general direction of what lay behind Thorin before patting the spot next to him. ''Come.''

Thorin opened his mouth, but found no words. He considered and for a moment he saw the hesitation in the Hobbits eyes. But before he could apologize, and before he fully realized himself, he stood. Bilbo seemed surprised, pleased, but surprised when Thorin _did_ sit down next to him; Pulling out his pipe and tobacco as if he had intended to have a smoke all along. Bilbo nodded in approval, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips as he bent back over his work.

It took a few puffs of smoke before Thorin allowed his eyes to drift to the Halflings hands again. Up close, he saw better just how much detail went into the craft. It seemed that it took almost no effort at all to weave flowers and grass together, and Thorin was reminded of the way he braided his hair. Had Bilbo been a Dwarf, he would have without a doubt rivaled the braider of Bombur's coarse hair. Bilbo raised the crown, twirling it and using the light of the flames that warmed the air around them. It seemed fine to Thorin, but Bilbo scoffed, as was custom, and placed it aside. He let out a sigh. ''Well, I suppose I'm off to bed as well. Goodnight.''

Thorin nodded, the only acknowledgement he had heard the Halfling. Bilbo's feet padded softly against the soil as he passed Thorin, and moments later Thorin heard a satisfied sigh as he pulled the fur cover to his chin. He continued puffing out soft billows of smoke, listening to the soft breathing of the Hobbit and the not so soft snores of the Dwarves. After a while, he picked up the crown that lay beside him, examining it by touch much like he had several months ago. With the amount of time passed he was unable to determine if it was much different, save for the color of the petals, which had come to be blue by a standard, and the texture of the greens. It irks him, more than he'd like to admit. He is genuinely interested in what has the Hobbit so taken with his hobby, and that by now he still sees nothing more than a crown of plants is more than just a little bothersome.  He sighs after the last smoke thins into the air and stands, taking the crown and placing it once more, ever so gently, next to Bilbo.

The ritual seemed set with that day. The looks first shot in his direction had long since turned away in boredom. After the events in the Goblin Tunnels it had become custom for them to sit by the fire, accompanied by the soft rustle of the leaves between Bilbo's fingers and the scent of Thorin's tobacco. Thorin doesn't dwell on the development. It just became, and now it was. Their conversations had grown to be more custom as well, of this and that, their schedule for the upcoming days and nights and tales of Hobbits and Dwarves alike. It was much the same this night, thought the setting was not as harsh, for they were seated behind Beorn's house.

''A thief and a liar it seems.'' Thorin spoke, tone ever as level, but Bilbo had long since learned to see through his masked amusement.

''I swear to you, I'm not lying. My cookie recipe has only been perfected thanks to years of free sampling. Not a jar was safe, and all of the Shire knew it. '' Bilbo says, the corner of his lips turned upward into a childish grin, a proud glimmer in his eyes Thorin was positive he'd never see would the Hobbit still be in his home. ''Gerontious The Old was many things, but not a good baker.''

''It seems you have changed a great deal, if you left behind the title of The Thief of Jars, Master Hobbit.''

Bilbo's smile fathered into a more solemn one, and for a moment Thorin regretted the words. ''It seems I have, yet not quite, for here I am.'' He spreads his arms to gesture around them, glimmer back and smile much fonder.

''Here you are indeed.'' Thorin murmurs, his own lips curving upward to match the fond smile Bilbo had. Their eyes meet and their gaze holds for a while, until Thorin sees something change in those eyes. Bilbo turns his head and clears his throat, fingers back on the crown.

''And I imagine the title I'll gain after this is much more impressive and boast worthy.''

''Aye, that it is.''

Something had changed between them. He dared not guess how long ago. It was not the first time he noticed an entirely different glimmer in the Hobbit's eyes, not the first time he felt his own guts stir when their gaze held for a little longer than necessary. From across the fire Dwalin cast him a sour look, one that was ever as menacing but also mocking. Thorin answered it with a scowl of his own and they held an unspoken argument, aided by the furrowing of brows and the rolling of eyes. It ends with Dwalin letting out an audible scoff, gaining the attention of Bilbo. He doesn't bother asking what's wrong, instead choosing to give Thorin a questioning look. It takes the slightest shake of a head. _Don't bother._

Bilbo shrugs, flashes him a grin. Lifts the crown and nods his head towards the large Dwarf. _Maybe I should make him a crown._

Thorin chokes on the smoke in his lungs. His coughs are loud and ungraceful, doing nothing to help diminish the laughter that bubbles from both his and Bilbo's chest. When he looks up Bilbo is grinning, and in the light of the fire his cheeks seem somewhat flushed. He drops his head, grin replaced by a soft smile as he picks at the petals of a crown he long since knew to be inadequate for his standard.

Thorin gives up on his pipe. He empties it of its cinders before tucking it away, giving one final nod to their Burglar before he walks inside. He doesn't miss the look Dwalin gives him but elects to ignore him. His mood is favorable and he thinks himself to be able to get a good night's sleep, something rare indeed, and something he won't let Dwalin ruin.

But his dreams are unsettling. It's not of Dragonfire and Orcs. Not of pain and grief, of shadow and cold. No, it's of flower crowns and Hobbits. One Hobbit in particular. The smiles are as genuine as they are when he's awake, but not as intense or as lasting in their effects, and each time it falters he goes back for more, walks after the Hobbit like a little lost puppy. It's as annoying as it is satisfying. When he wakes, the first thing he sees is the Hobbit  a mere arm length's away, crown clasped between his fingers. The Hobbit seems to sense his gaze, for his eyes flutter open, and when their eyes meet, he flashes him a small smile, and Thorin answers.

 

That seemed a lifetime ago, Thorin thinks as he watches Bilbo's determined gaze as the Hobbit vouches for him in front of the people of Lake Town. He is much aware of the sense of more than just friendly appreciation he feels at the words of their Burglar. The little Halfling that saved their sorry hides and sneaked his way into Thorin's heart. Bilbo's eyes are fixed on his, rooting him in place. He seems stern, angry even. But when he finally finishes he smiles, and Thorin wants to speak, to thank him, but he loses sight of Bilbo, all of them caught up in the excitement of the Men around them. He catches glimpses of the Halfling throughout the night, but he's too focused on his kin, the mountain and the ale. He drinks with vigor, smiles without restraint. It's not until his senses are dulled and his movements have grown considerably sluggish that he sees him again.

It takes more than a slight tug at his sleeve before Bilbo gains his attention. The Halfling smiles a polite smile at the Men rising far above him.

''Would you excuse us for a moment?''

He doesn't wait for an answer, and Thorin follows in earnest curiosity, laughter forgotten. He follows closer than entirely necessary, and he is suddenly aware of the warmth in his hand. He looks down and sees Bilbo's smaller fingers clasped around his own, and suddenly he wished that wherever Bilbo led him was far away. That he could show his gratitude, his affection, for that it was, in something other than words.

''Are you enjoying yourself Master Baggins?'' He asks, words slightly slurred.

''Hmm.'' Bilbo hums, giving him a quick glance. ''Well enough. Not as much as you though. Or any of the others. Still, I'm glad it's not my home you're wrecking. Careful, stairs.''

He turns sideways, allowing Thorin to strategically place his foot on the first step. In the back of his mind Thorin registers that Bilbo laughs, but he doesn't defend himself, merely joins, because it's all too amusing. It seems like he's scaling a mountain, and by the time Bilbo stops at the top of the stairs he is struggling to stay upright. He looks up and meets Bilbo's gaze. There is something entirely surreal about it, with Bilbo standing higher than he. Bilbo is still holding his hand, but that _smile_ is there again. And before his mind can comprehend his own thoughts and tell him not to, his free hand reaches up, brushing the nape of the Hobbit's neck. He hesitates at the look in Bilbo's eyes, one of surprise and shock, but also curiosity. When at last he decides, he clasps the back of the Halfling's neck and takes a large step to level himself with Bilbo, before leans in.

He feels the startled jolt more than he sees it, as his lips brush against Bilbo's. But the contact sends a jolt through his own body as well, one of shocked realization. He means to lean back, break contact and apologize. But, as nature has it, the stubbornness of Dwarves is matched by Hobbits'. He can only grunt when Bilbo's hand brushes his neck much the same way he had before, before closing around his hair. He tugs at it with far more force than one would expect, and Thorin is unsure but curious on how big or little the influence of alcohol is on this. But then Bilbo's lips are on his again and it sparks a flutter in his chest he didn't realize he had missed. Carefully, for their balance is shaky at best, he takes a step forward as Bilbo shuffles backwards, and then he stands tall again. With it, he gains confidence. He gives a slight squeeze on Bilbo's neck, using the same hand to pull him closer. The kiss turns hungry, more uncoordinated, and Thorin thinks with regret that perhaps he'd done best to do this sober. But Bilbo smiles into the kiss, not at all bothered by the ever changing force that Thorin puts behind his lips. He indulges in it, loses himself in the sparks on his skin and the flutter in his chest until he can't put off air any longer, and is forced to tap Thorin's chest in a signal to break contact.

They break apart, yet not at all, for Bilbo can still feel Thorin's warm breath on his face and smell the ale that taints it. He cares not, much like Thorin, and the silence that settles between them is broken only by their soft puffs of air.  

''Well,'' Bilbo starts. And then he smiles, and the smile turns into a laugh, and before either of them think much about it their laughter fills the air around them.

It dies down, but the glimmer doesn't leave his eyes, and his smile seems brighter than ever. ''As nice as that was, that was not why I wanted you to follow me.''

''It was for me.'' Thorin blurts.

This time there is no fire to deceive his eyes, and Thorin is able to see that Bilbo's cheeks heat up. The Hobbit clears his throat. ''You're awfully sincere under the influence of ale.''

Thorin merely hums, too taken with the color that has risen further to grace the tip of Bilbo's ears. It's not until Bilbo turns his head that his gaze is pulled away and is instead focused once more on the hand in his.

''Come, I want to see if I finally did it.''

''Finally did what?''

Bilbo doesn't answer, instead pulls him further into the small corridors and leads him to a balcony. He lets go of Thorin's hand and the Dwarven King reaches out after him without thinking about it. He misses however, and is left with a hand feeling seemingly colder than it ever had.

''I didn't actually think I would get the chance again to make one. I saw these and thought them perfect. Awfully rude I was, to leave the party for it, but I couldn't resist.''

Thorin doesn't get to ask what Bilbo is talking about. The Hobbit turns, and in his hand is a flower crown, with flowers which colors, under the night sky, remind Thorin of the many sapphires once to be found in the mountains. Again, he doesn't get to speak. Bilbo, oddly cautious, extends his arms and Thorin follows every movement with interest. Gently he places the crown atop the Dwarf's head, plucks at his hair a bit, a gesture he is not aware of its intimacy of. But Thorin lets him, completely in awe and shock alike. And then Bilbo's face breaks into a smile, accompanied by a small beam of delight as he steps back to regard the view in front of him.

''There. Finally one suited for a King.''

Thorin almost sobers up instantly. His smile drops in shock at the same time he reaches up and gently touches the crown, not made of gold and jeweled with the finest gems and crafted by the most skilled of Dwarves but far more simple; one that bears far less significance to anyone but them and will not last through time itself. But he is struck with a strange realization, that this crown, such a contradiction to everything a crown should be, warms his heart far more than the one buried in the mountain. Makes him feel overwhelmed as if he had already reclaimed the mountain. And then there were the words Bilbo had spoken. _Finally_.

He stares at Bilbo, completely at a loss for words and trying to remember if there had been a significant moment, a particular occurrence- ''After the Goblin Tunnels.'' He started, voice oddly soft. ''The flowers were always blue after that.''

Bilbo nodded, lips still smiling, albeit much smaller than before, and eyes searching. ''It seemed your color. Do you not like it? I realize it must not exactly be the type of crown for Dwarves, much less a King.''

He sees himself in the reflection of the window behind Bilbo. He should feel embarrassed. Ridiculed. Perhaps even angry. But instead he is speechless, completely absorbed in the odd figure he must strike. His eyes meet Bilbo again and suddenly he feels grateful, enamored in a way he has not before. He feels it in the depth of his chest, and suddenly he can only smile, could not bring the corners of his mouth down even if he wanted to.

''I know this is hardly as glorious as the one in the mountain, I may be skilled, but not _that_ skilled. '' he pauses, visibly searching for the words. ''I will not understand the burden or the weight you carry as a King, nor will I be able to help in lessening it. Isee you as a King. I know I know nothing about it, but as far as I see it, a good one at that, and I know the others do too. Don't look at me like that, I know you doubt them at times.'' He smiles. ''I know you've carried the title for quite a while with only the strain to prove it. So I thought perhaps it would do you good to look like one.''   

Still Thorin is at a loss for words, only able to stare at Bilbo. _Bilbo_. The Hobbit who could not possibly be aware of just how important his role as a king was to Thorin, just how important that crown was; not just for him but for his kin, and how heavy the weight of it felt on his shoulders. Who would not indeed not understand should he have till the end of time to explain, but _tried_. Oh how he did. He stares at his reflection again, a Dwarf broad and brusque in body, but frown absent and instead replaced with an expression of bafflement. He could not put into words what the crown did to his appearance.

''You don't have to wear it if you don't want to.''

''No.'' Thorin answered, entirely too hasty. ''No, I want to.'' He adds, much softer, more of a murmur. ''It's a fine crown.''

''For a fine King.'' Bilbo steps up next to him and stands on his toes, and then Thorin feels his lips against the scruff on his jaws. He smiles, turns to clasp a hand on the back of Bilbo's neck and pull him close, before he gently touches their foreheads together. Bilbo smiles up at him, mimicking the movement. The hobbit's hands feel soft and small as they wave through his hair before settling on skin hot from the alcohol running through his veins. But they bring comfort and warmth, one that runs deeper than skin and causes a wave of affection to wash over him. The crown shifts, leaves tickling his hairline and the tip of his ears. But it sits comfortable, and he doesn't adjust it, only smiles wider.

A fine crown indeed.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE point out any spelling or grammar errors you find! Comments and Kudos are much appreciated!


End file.
